


he is fire (he is fury)

by mnabokov



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: First Time, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, laura is clint's sister btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 18:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7064572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnabokov/pseuds/mnabokov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pietro is young and alive; he is rage and he is roaring and Clint can’t remember ever wanting someone so badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he is fire (he is fury)

He wakes to the sound of a heart monitor, beeping slow and somber like the pulse of a threnody.

 

His body aches and he feels drugged. When Pietro cracks open his eyes, the dull hospital lights make him wince. His head hurts.

 

When he looks down, gauze covers the bullet holes in his chest, in his arms, in his legs. His mouth feels like it’s full of sawdust and his limbs are heavy. He cannot move, does not try to.

 

Wanda sits in a chair to his right and Pietro tries to open his mouth to speak but both his mind and muscles are sluggish, weighed down by whatever drips slowly into his veins intravenously. The world feels like it’s moving in slow motion; inwardly, Pietro shudders at the thought. He glances at the IV bags once more then lets his eyelids slide shut.

 

-

 

When he wakes again, Wanda is hunched over his chest, murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like ‘thank you,’ over and over, under her breath. Pietro wants to run his hand through her hair reassuringly, tell her that he’s fine, he’s been through worse, but can’t find the energy within himself to do so.

 

He settles for drifting back to sleep once more.

 

-

 

The third time that Pietro awakens, he remembers.

 

He remembers Strucker and Sokovia and the Avengers, the deep voice of Ultron and the feel of seventeen bullets ripping through his body. He remembers Wanda’s scream, Clint’s wide eyes.

 

Pietro coughs, sitting up abruptly. His heart thuds in his chest and dimly, he realizes that his hands are shaking. The heart monitor beeps rapidly, like the beat to the Hora. If he listens closely, Pietro thinks he can hear Wanda and the Captain outside of his room. Suddenly, he feels exhausted.

 

The walls of his room are white and the room feels sterile, bleak and empty save for the single chair to the right of his bed. Pietro blinks.

 

Clint Barton fills the chair, his black garb juxtaposed to the white of the room. Pietro remembers a bullet splintering the glass underneath his feet, falling, falling down and Clint’s curious expression as he’d said, “You didn’t see that coming?”

 

The man looks tired, now, his eyes dark and heavy as they meet Pietro’s gaze. Several white pieces of gauze are wrapped around his arms.

 

Pietro remembers Strucker, cold hands on his body, icy metal and dampness and darkness –

 

“We’ll be okay,” the archer interrupts Pietro’s thoughts and Pietro looks at him, really looks at him. The gratitude that bubbles in his chest is so abrupt that Pietro doesn’t know what to say. Pietro wants to thank this man for showing him that there is another way, that there is more and that –

 

But he doesn’t know how to.

 

His sandpaper tongue refuses to curl up to form the words, so Pietro sits there, quiet. His mouth is unbelievably dry. His heart monitor is the only sound in the room and Pietro can feel Clint’s gaze on him but all he can do is look down at his hands.

 

Finally, when Wanda and the Captain’s voices have risen to shouts, Pietro looks up, meets Clint’s gaze. Pietro rasps, “Can I have a glass of water?”

 

-

 

Pietro adapts.

 

He learns that his sister has somehow brought him back to life, and Pietro doesn’t think about that too much, waves off her explanation.

 

He learns that America is loud and noisy, cars constantly hustling through the cities – always somewhere to go, somewhere to be. The SHIELD facility that he and Wanda stay in is clean and nice, all glass walls and green grass. When Pietro is released from the infirmary ward, he walks – not runs – to the grass lawn, bare feet on moist grass and bare toes digging into the earth. He breathes deeply, lets the clean air fill his lungs and he turns his face to the skin, thinks that he will begin anew here.

 

He learns that Captain America has offered him and his sister a place on their team, and, after some discussion on the Captain and Wanda’s part, they will be staying here, in this new facility until they’ve finished their training.

 

For the first few days after Pietro’s recovery, Wanda refuses to leave his side, eyes sharp and hand curled into the crook of his elbow. He does not push her away.

 

They recover together, like they always have, and when Wanda asks him if he wants to stay, he lets out one long breath, looks her in the eyes and says yes without an ounce of uncertainty.

 

He learns that the Captain is a soldier, pushes him and Wanda and Falcon and the Vision to their limits. Pietro learns how to feel alive again during their training, learns how to control his energy, harness his speed and when he leaves the gym breathing hard and heavy, he feels useful. He feels like he’s a part of something bigger, a part of something good.

 

He meets the team, then decides that they fit together like the threads in a tapestry; in battle, it is impossible to tell where one blur ends and another begins.

 

The Black Widow is dangerous and she is cunning, every line of her body a threat and when she smiles, Pietro thinks he sees some of Wanda in her.

 

Tony Stark is flamboyant. He is over-the-top dramatic and ostentatious and not the kind of man to drop a bomb on a building of innocent civilians, Pietro decides.

 

Wanda seems taken with the Vision and when Pietro sees her laugh at something he says – genuine laughter spilling from her throat, the kind that Pietro hasn’t heard for years – something in his gut loosens.

 

Pietro learns that Clint Barton is elusive when he wants to be, sometimes missing for days on end, but when put on the spot, the archer is as quick-witted as Tony Stark.

 

Barton left after Pietro recovered, muttering something about sister-in-laws and remained elusive until the second week of Wanda and Pietro’s training.

 

“Hawkeye,” the Captain announces, as Barton slips into the gym during one of their hand-to-hand combat sessions.

 

The room makes their collective greetings before Falcon resumes hammering a punching bag, Vision murmuring to Wanda.

 

“Maybe you’d be better sparring with Barton,” Captain says, panting slightly as Barton walks over to them. Pietro and the Captain stand on the edge of a mattress. “You’re more of his height.”

 

“I’m going to ignore that and pretend you said nothing,” Barton replies easily. He turns to Pietro and smiles, lips thin. He steps into the ring. “What do you say, kid, give me a little hand-to-hand for some warm-up?”

 

And it’s easy, so natural to smirk back. “I could give you more than a hand, if you know what I mean,” slips from his mouth before he even thinks about it and, with a glimmer of satisfaction, Pietro sees Clint’s eyes widen a fraction.

 

Pietro’s moving before Barton can formulate a reply.

 

He barrels into Clint, aiming a fist toward the archer’s stomach. He hears it collide with a satisfying smack. What he doesn’t suspect, however, is for Barton to grab onto his fist with both hands, hold his wrist in a vise-like grip. Pietro’s anchored, unable to speed away.

 

The fight proves to be one of the more strenuous activities that Pietro has engaged in during his stay at SHIELD headquarters. Pietro struggles, gives it all he has, and he’s dripping in sweat by the time Barton sneaks his arm behind Pietro’s knee, tugs sharply. And Pietro collapses back onto the mattress, his legs crumpling underneath him.

 

“I think, out of the two of us, I’d be the one giving you a hand,” Barton says easily, when Pietro’s on the ground, on his back, and Barton between his legs. One knee presses down on Pietro’s hip and Barton’s forearm is pressed against Pietro’s neck, effectively pinning him down.

 

And Pietro laughs, the sound bursting from his chest without his consent. “You got me, alright, I give,” and if his accent is thicker than usual, Barton doesn’t say anything, just holds out a hand that Pietro readily accepts.

 

Pietro doesn’t recognize the first tugs of attraction until it hits him in the gut, and even when it does, it’s a surprise.  

 

He’s never really felt any genuine attraction for anyone since he and Wanda have been on the run, since their home collapsed around them.

 

And then, one morning, Pietro dreams of a hot mouth, warm skin and a head of messy brown hair.

 

He wakes slowly, alone, with no sound filling his room save for the sound of his own breathing. The white sheets of his cot are warm around him and his face is comfortably mashed into his pillow. He cants his hips into the mattress mindlessly and Pietro sighs. His hand has drifted down his chest, slipping under his boxers when he realizes that his prick is hot and heavy in his palm, erect for the first time since – for a long time.

 

Pietro brushes off the thought easily, hand wrapping around the head of his cock and Pietro hums, heat pooling in his belly. An image of Barton comes to mind, unbidden, but Pietro welcomes it nevertheless. He thinks of the line of Barton’s jaw, the way his fingers curl around his bow and arrow, and it’s easy to stroke himself to completion with the image of Barton’s arms, his rough hands in mind.

 

Pietro comes silently, biting back a moan. He lies there, in his bed, body satiated, limbs pliant and loose, and lets sleep overcome him once more.

 

-

 

He finds Clint’s file and yeah, he reads it. Pietro can’t even imagine how it must feel like to have someone _in your head_ , can’t even fathom the idea of someone controlling your actions. Especially for Clint, a trained assassin who’s spent his whole life learning himself, and having that undone, becoming _unmade_.

 

And for that, Pietro admires the man even more.

 

-

 

Pietro doesn’t really think much of it. He has an attraction, a predilection. It feels good; _he_ feels good when he thinks of Barton and Pietro indulges himself. God knows he’s been deprived of this feeling long enough.

 

So when Captain America assigns him with Barton on a reconnaissance mission, he doesn’t think anything of it, shrugs and accepts the manila folder without any particular complaints.

 

It’s his first mission, so to speak, and Barton reassures him that there won’t be any engagement with the enemy of any kind. From what Pietro understands, they’re off somewhere in the Lesser Caucasus, camping up in the black cliffs above a HYDRA base, near the city of Yerevan.

 

The communication equipment is delicate, so it’s hard for them to calibrate in the harsh weather and the steep altitude, but more importantly, Cap wants Pietro to get a feel for reconnaissance.

 

“The experience will be good,” he had said, and that was that.

 

So that’s how Pietro finds himself setting up a small, discreet black tent with Clint Barton in the middle of a mountain range on a Friday afternoon.

 

The tent is matte, blends in perfectly with the rocky outcrop behind them. If Pietro lies on his belly and scoots forward, to the edge of the cliff, he can spy the HYDRA camp below them, small figures scuttling to and fro.

 

It’s cold, but not overwhelmingly so – at least not to Pietro – so as Barton finishes setting up camp, Pietro lies belly down on the black rock, eyes flitting from the HYDRA base to the sky, the horizon, and back.

 

The sky is milky and white. The dark cliffs dig their peaks into the belly of the clouds above their heads and Pietro watches in fascination as the HYDRA agents swarm around their base, like a cloud of hornets swarming around their nest.

 

“Tent’s ready,” says Barton, and Pietro nods, eyes never leaving the sight below him. “Come on, we don’t care what they do until tomorrow. That’s when the guy we want rolls in.”

 

“I know,” Pietro says, “I read the file,” and Pietro thinks he can feel Barton rolling his eyes. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

 

“Whatever you say,” says Barton, and his voice fades as if he’s already headed inside the tent.

 

“Wind-resistant and insulated,” Barton says, as Pietro shuffles into the tent a minute later. “State of the art and only a few millimeters thick.”

 

They settle onto the floor, which consists of a thin layer of insulated material over the solid ice of the mountain. Barton sits on his bedroll, thumbing through his arrows, lips forming numbers as he counts them. Pietro watches silently, perched on the bedroll right next to him, doesn’t even flinch when Barton glances up to see Pietro watching him.

 

“I didn’t do this before,” Barton says, his voice low. He sets the arrows back into his quiver, begins unbuckling his Kevlar vest. Pietro looks away when he hears the first click.

 

“Do what?” asks Pietro, tugging at his shoelace with one hand.

 

“Count my arrows,” Barton replies. There’s a soft thud as he tosses the vest aside, a quiet rasp of material filling the tent as he lies down on his bedroll.

 

Pietro’s mouth is half-open; he wants to blurt out why, but then he thinks of the god Loki and his blue scepter and wisely remains quiet.

 

“And now,” Barton says a minute later, his words filling the tent, “Now every time I see one of my explosive arrows, I think of how I used one of them to take out the Helicarrier.”

 

“That was not you,” Pietro says, his tongue numb.

 

Barton replies quietly, “It was my body.”

 

Silence.

 

And then, “Get to sleep, kid, we’ve got a day ahead of us tomorrow.”

 

Pietro falls asleep to the sound of Barton’s steady breathing.

 

-

 

He wakes to the cold.

 

Pietro is curled up on his right side, arms tucked into his chest, body protesting the chill that has seeped into their tent during the night, wind-resistant and heavily insulated tent be damned.

 

Barton is spooned up behind him, their bodies tucked underneath the weight of the sleeping bags. Barton’s arm is slung over Pietro’s waist, fitting perfectly into the slot above his hipbone, and his chest is snug against Pietro’s backside, crotch firmly pressed against Pietro’s ass. Pietro thinks he can feel the faint impression of Barton’s lips at the back of his neck.

 

Pietro’s first instinct is to freeze, and thank fuck it is, because he’s sure that the archer is still asleep, his breaths even in Pietro’s ear. With every breath that the man takes, Pietro feels his dick press up against Pietro’s ass and Barton is thick – hot and hard even through his SHIELD-issued pants – and Pietro _wants_ , he wants to rock his hips back and –

 

He fights the whimper that’s threatening to crawl out of his throat, fights the urge to rock back and grind down _hard_ because for all that he knows, Barton could be dreaming about anything.

 

Pietro can’t bring himself to pull away, to scoot forward and pretend nothing had ever happened so he lies there, eyes firmly shut, keeping his breath measured and Barton has to be asleep – he has to be –

 

And then Barton stirs.

 

Pietro can feel his breath catch. He imagines the archer blinking back the vestiges of sleep and for a split second, heat pools in Pietro’s gut as Barton presses – Barton leans forward and his dick is snug against the crack of Pietro’s ass and Pietro bites down on his tongue, eyes rolling back in his skull and it feels so fucking good that his mouth waters. The line of Barton’s dick is heavy and Pietro wants, so badly, more than anything – he clenches down on his teeth, feigning sleep and then –

 

And then the moment is over.

 

Barton pulls back delicately and the weight presses into Pietro’s backside disappears; Barton removes his arm from where it was slung over Pietro’s side, carefully extracting himself from the situation. Cold air rushes into the vacant spot and Pietro suppresses the urge to shiver. He bites his tongue. Pietro becomes hyperaware of his own erection, hanging between his legs.

 

There’s the sound of a zipper unzipping, then zipping back up again as Pietro guesses Barton leaves the tent, closing the flap mindfully behind him.

 

Goosebumps erupt over Pietro’s arms and he wills his erection away, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He thinks of Strucker – cold floor and wet dirt pressed against his skin, nails digging into his arms, his legs, his thighs – and perhaps it’s too effective because his erection wilts and Pietro curls into himself, clenches his eyes impossibly tighter and resolutely tries to drag himself from that dark place, from that windowless room in the basement of that fortress in Sokovia.

 

His breathing becomes ragged. Pietro rolls over, onto his belly, mashes his face into his pillow and dimly, he hears the faint sound of a zipper being undone.

 

“Pietro?” says Barton.

 

Cold floor and wet dirt, pressed against his skin –

 

“Pietro?” Barton repeats, his voice impossibly soft.

 

Nails digging into his arms, his legs, his thighs, his –

 

“Hey, hey, breathe, kid, breathe,” says Barton and Pietro takes a deep breath, sucks air deep down into his lungs and it is shockingly cold – Pietro thinks he might’ve inhaled bits of ice –

 

“Pietro,” Barton says and he’s squatting down by the bedroll when Pietro cracks his eyes open, “Hey, listen to me.”

 

And Pietro does. He’s not sure what his expression reads, but Barton looks at him – really looks at him – and says, “We’ll be okay,” once more and offers a hand. Pietro, unsure of what else to do, takes it.

 

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

 

Clint doesn’t want to leave Laura.

 

He apologizes, profusely, and she smiles her soft smile, tells him it’s alright, really. He kisses her on the cheek and says goodbye to his nephew, his niece, and nephew-to-be.

 

The farm is peaceful and quiet, slow and somnolent. It is everything that the new SHIELD headquarters is not.

 

He makes it back two weeks into the Maximoff twins’ training.

 

Wanda takes a liking to Natasha immediately and the warmth in Natasha’s smile spreads to Clint as well. Clint feels better here, feels at home. He trains, eats, watches movies with what’s left of the team at the tower. It’s good for him.

 

And then there is Yerevan.

 

Clint’s embarrassed. To say the least. But he saw that coming; how could he not? With Pietro’s charming smile, his warm skin and messy hair, he is impossible for Clint to resist.

 

One morning, as he lies in the warmth of his bed he’s thinking about it – the glint of Pietro’s teeth when he laughs at a crude joke Tony made, the line of his stomach heaving when he wears those skin-tight shirts, the swell of his ass in track pants.

 

When the door slams open, he is rudely shaken out of his stupor. Clint jerks his hand out of his pants and looks up.

 

“Up and at ‘em, Barton,” says Natasha. She looks at him knowingly and sighs.

 

“Knock next time,” he calls as she leaves the room.

 

-

 

“Here’s our guy,” Cap says. He throws a folder onto the conference table. Clint opens the manila folder and an angry-looking mugshot glares at him from within it. “Arthur Hogan.”

 

“Friendly looking fellow,” remarks Clint.

 

“He’s got some files we need,” Rogers explains, “But the problem is, they’re hardcopy.”

 

“Like, paper,” interjects Pietro.

 

“Right. So we can’t hack into their system – ”

 

“Shame,” mutters Vision.

 

“But we can send agents in. Hogan’s having a gala tomorrow, and we’re invited.”

 

“All of us?” Wanda raises an eyebrow.

 

“Just two,” Steve says firmly. “Hill elected Hawkeye as the agent to take it. And,” Steve turns, “Vision, it’s a – a human-only kind of gala so – ”

 

“Understood,” Vision says politely.

 

“Wanda just had that mission in Indianapolis, so,” Cap nods at Pietro, “It’s just Hawkeye and Quicksilver.”

 

Clint resists the urge to roll his eyes at the predictability of it all.

 

“No comms. No electronics allowed in the building – they have guards on every other floor and heat sensors all over the place,” Cap glances at Pietro, “That means no super speeds.”

 

The kid shrugs.

 

“We’re disabling the cameras, so there’ll be a short window for you to get in the office, get the folder, and get out of there.”

 

“And us?” Wanda asks. Steve purses his lips. “The gala will be held relatively close, so the rest of us will be nearby, probably across the street.”

 

Wanda visibly relaxes, leaning back in her chair.

 

“Easy.” Clint props his feet onto the conference table.

 

Cap sighs. “We’ll see.”

 

They suit up – but this time, in nice clothes.

 

“It’s a black tie event,” Cap had said.

 

Clint wears a dress shirt and shoulder holster, shoes with two knives tucked in his socks. Pietro dresses similarly, except his white dress shirt is obscenely tight and the fabric of his slacks stretch around the tight swell of his ass. Clint forces himself to actually pay attention to the maps that Rogers has pulled up, spread across the conference table.

 

“Just, try to stay in character,” Cap says finally, when he realizes that no one is really listening to what he says.

 

“You mean boy toy and sugar daddy?” Pietro asks, cocking an eyebrow suggestively and Clint closes his eyes, digs deep inside of himself for some self-restraint. “Because I think we can pull that off pretty well, right Hawkeye?”

 

Cap says, “I’m not going to ask where you learned those words.”

 

When they finish, Pietro stands first and Clint sees the material of Pietro’s dress shirt bunch up behind his zipper. He looks away carefully.

 

-

 

The building that the gala is held in is tall and ostentatious. Their mark, Hogan, is ridiculously paranoid.

 

“Zane Palacios,” the guard at the door says, voice gruff, “And his plus one.” The guard leers at the two of them and Clint puts a casual arm around Pietro’s waist. Quicksilver’s skin is almost unbearably warm.

 

“Why am I the plus one,” asks Pietro when they’ve entered the main foyer. His eyes dart around, locating the nearest exits.

 

“Because I’m older and more experienced,” Clint manages not to growl, grip on Pietro’s waist tightening slightly as they squeeze between two groups of well-dressed entrepreneurs.

 

 “I almost forgot,” Pietro says, his voice low and breathy. He turns around abruptly, and stops both of them, one hand splayed on Clint’s chest and the other wrapping around Clint’s wrist. He leans in close. “I’m the boy toy and you’re my daddy,” Quicksilver purrs, his cheek pressed against Clint’s, his lips brushing the curve of Clint’s ear and _fuck_ –

 

Something low and dangerous unfurls in Clint’s belly; he feels every line of Pietro’s body as the latter presses into him –

 

“Pietro,” Clint murmurs warningly, eyes scanning the room in front of them.

 

“Your three o’clock,” Pietro murmurs. “And stop acting so tense.”

 

Clint allows a smile to grace his features, but it feels more like a grimace as he glances over Arthur Hogan. The man looks older, friendlier in person.

 

“If he’s here,” Clint breathes.

 

“His office is empty,” Pietro confirms, then pulls back, laughing abruptly. The humor doesn’t reach his eyes. “Well then,” says Quicksilver, louder, “Why don’t you show me?” and his mouth curls into a dangerous smile.

 

Pietro is young, thinks Clint, as they make their way through the throng of entrepreneurs, philanthropists, and peace-advocates. Pietro is young and alive, full of fire and fury and Clint can’t remember ever wanting someone so badly.

 

They push their way into a crowded elevator, full of a gaggle of laughing ladies with pink martinis in hand.

 

“Lovely party, isn’t it?” one of them croons, and Pietro flashes her a charming smile, presses himself further into Clint’s side.

 

“And which floor will you ladies be going to?” Pietro asks.

 

“Twelve,” the same one smiles.

 

“Us as well,” Clint says, pushing the button. Around his wrist, Pietro’s fingers tighten warningly and Clint drums two fingers on Pietro’s waist in response. Stairs.

 

Everyone in the elevator exits on the twelfth floor. Clint bids the ladies goodnight, tugs Pietro toward the stairwell. “It’s easier to blend in when there’re more people,” Clint tells Pietro, as they jog up the stairs. “We were less noticeable that way,” and Pietro nods, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, all traces of charm gone.

 

They pause outside the door leading to the thirteenth floor; Clint watches his watch and Pietro presses his ear against the door. The large hand on Clint’s watch strikes thirty-seconds and Pietro nods. The door swings open and they pace down the hallway, completely silent.

 

Clint spits out the bobby pin he had tucked in between his molars and cheek, uses it to open the door to Hogan’s office.

 

The door clicks open easily and Clint slides in first, just like they’d planned. Pietro comes in a heartbeat later, the door shutting and locking once more with a quick ‘snnck.’

 

“Eleven, twenty-four, seven,” Pietro murmurs and Clint fiddles with the lock, fingers stumbling over the numbers.

 

“Can you see?” Pietro whispers.

 

“Shut up,” Clint hisses, tries the lock combination again. He tugs the lock but it won’t give.

 

“Let me turn on the light – it’ll just be for – ”

 

“Don’t – ” Clint begins warningly and Pietro flicks the light on anyway.

 

“Fuck,” Clint hisses, but works quickly. The lock pops open with a satisfying click and Clint slides the filing cabinet open, rummaging through the papers.

 

“Barton,” Pietro says softly.

 

“F, G, H, I –”

 

Pietro hisses, “Barton!”

 

“J, K, L – what?”

 

“Someone’s coming,” Pietro says, just as the elevator dings.

 

And Clint resists the urge to growl in frustration. “Fuck,” he glances around. The office only has one window looking into the hallway. He looks up, trying to find –

 

“It’s his secretary, fuck, Barton, it’s Hogan’s secretary – ”

 

“Get away from the window,” Clint whispers, rushing toward Pietro. In his mind, a plan has already formed. As soon as she steps into the office, Clint can grab her neck –

 

“Go along with it,” Pietro interrupts him and before Clint can tell Pietro that he’s already got Plan B ready for execution, Pietro grabs onto Clint’s collar, yanks him forward so that Pietro stumbles backward, onto the desk, Clint stepping neatly into the slot between his legs.

 

There’s a quiet jingle as the secretary fits her key into the lock; Clint remembers that Pietro actually remembered to lock it –

 

And then Pietro’s lips are on Clint’s, his nose pressing into Clint’s before Clint automatically tilts his head, giving Pietro a better angle. He realizes a second later that his eyes are still open – he can still see the dark smudges of Pietro’s eyelashes against the pale of his cheek – and then closes them.

 

The door creaks open and Pietro lets out a low moan, hot and throaty as Clint’s mouth molds perfectly against his. Clint arches his back slightly, presses their body impossibly closer and Clint can feel the tantalizing line of Pietro’s stomach, his chest, his legs. He plants his palms on either side of Pietro’s hips, flat on the desk and leans further into Pietro’s touch.

 

Their teeth clack as Pietro pries open Clint’s mouth with his tongue and the kiss turns hot and sloppy; Pietro’s tongue is slick in Clint’s mouth, his hands tugging at Clint’s belt and Clint’s dick twitches dangerously –

 

“Oh!” the secretary squeaks, and Clint hears the door slamming after her.

 

“Sorry,” Clint remembers himself, pulling away from Pietro, “Sorry, we couldn’t help ourselves – ”

 

Pietro’s eyes are piercingly sharp and his thighs are warm around Clint’s waist.

 

“It’s fine,” she says, from outside, shrill voice carrying down the hall along with the clacking of her heels, “I’ll – I’ll come back later.”

 

Clint lets out a long breath of air. Pietro is still clenching Clint’s tie, his mouth slightly open and his lips pink –

 

The elevator dings, cracking the silence in half and Clint springs back into action, pushing away from Pietro and rushing toward the still-open cabinet.

 

“M, N – got it,” he says, and when he turns around, Pietro is looking out the window.

 

“We have to hurry,” Quicksilver says, and his voice is hoarse. “The guards will be coming up any minute.”

 

Clint nods. He takes the paper out of its manila folder and folds it carefully. “Pietro?”

 

“Yeah,” the young man says cautiously. Clint tucks the paper into his back pocket. “Call me Clint.”

 

Pietro turns slightly, so that Clint can see the edges of his smirk.

 

 Clint sighs. “Kill the lights.”

 

-

 

When they get back to HQ, Clint tells Pietro to change out before they begin debriefing.

 

“But I thought – ” Pietro begins before Clint cuts him off. “It’ll be fine, go, go.”

 

Clint watches Pietro hesitate, then watches as Pietro strides down the hallway. He turns and almost runs into Natasha.

 

“Hate to see him leave,” she stands with her arms crossed, a smirk painted across her face. “But – ”

 

“Don’t finish that,” Clint says warningly. He heads toward the stairwell.

 

“See you at debrief,” she calls after him.

 

-

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Nicaragua?” Clint asks, as he steps out of the admittedly cold shower.

 

“Had to come back when I heard what you’ve been up to,” Natasha answers easily. She sits cross-legged on Clint’s bed, tablet in her lap. She holds it up and Clint groans. On screen, Natasha’s reviewing footage of the gala. Clint catches a glimpse of Pietro’s legs wrapped around his waist, crossed at the ankles, Clint pushing Pietro onto Hogan’s desk, before he turns away, toweling at his hair.

 

“Tasha, c’mon, turn it off.”

 

“Why would I turn it off when I can watch you and our live-in jailbait go at it?”

 

Clint tugs on a purple shirt. “Please don’t call him that.”

 

Natasha looks up at this, quirks an eyebrow and Clint hates that look, the one where she knows she’s just exploited one of his (many) insecurities. “He’s twenty-four, Clint,” she says, almost gently.

 

“I don’t deserve this,” he says. Clint lets out a frustrated groan when on-screen Pietro lets out a pornographic moan and there’s mirth twinkling in Natasha’s eyes. “Come on, Tasha, I never do this to you.”

 

To which she replies, “You can’t. It doesn’t work on me because I never mean it.” She looks at him, contemplative, before continuing. “You deserve good things, Clint. You’ve punished yourself enough.”

 

And Clint’s mouth becomes very dry. She stands up, shutting the tablet off, walks across the room and pats Clint on the cheek amicably. “Come on Hawkeye, we’ve got somewhere to be.”

 

-

 

Clint is torn.

 

On one hand, Pietro is vivacious and burning – he is fire, unstoppable and dangerous, consuming everything in his path. And on the other hand, Pietro is young and vulnerable in a way that frightens Clint, perhaps because it reminds Clint of himself.

 

Pietro is young and alive; he is rage and he is roaring and Clint can’t remember ever wanting someone so badly.

  

During his own SHIELD training, Clint had spent all of his time trying to learn his body – its weakness, its strengths, how far he can push before it pushes back.

 

And then Loki came, and everything that Clint did – the arrows he shot at the Helicarrier – all felt so easy, so _natural_ that it scares Clint. It scares him because the body he had known inside out before Loki became the thing that betrayed him and nothing that he did felt _wrong_. Clint expected there to be some fallout, some repercussions, or some form of retribution because he’d blow up part of the Helicarrier without pausing for breath, because he could be a liability but Fury had sent him right back out again after a standard two weeks of not-so-helpful therapy. But there was nothing.

 

Clint starts to avoid Pietro.

 

It’s a conscious decision on his part, and he doesn’t stop too much to think about it because why would he stop to think about anything when he could just do it?

 

The temptation is too much; every toned line of Pietro’s body is a provocation and Clint’s willpower is battered enough, thank you very much.

 

In the beginning, it’s easier. He only sees Pietro when they train – Clint makes sure to only come on the group-training days – and sometimes in the hallway at HQ. But then Tony invites everyone to basically live at his tower and everything goes downhill from there.

 

During movie nights, Pietro chooses to sit as close to Clint as humanly possible, and since the team loves to see how many people they can fit on a couch, Clint usually finds himself squashed at the end of the couch, Pietro’s body heat bleeding into his side.

 

Tony makes them all eat dinner together, as well.

 

“Alright, everyone,” he announces when everyone’s meandered into the living room. “I know you all hate each other but Pepper’s leaving for Tokyo and so you better all be nice this once. Then we can go back to ignoring each other and pretending we don’t live in the same building.”

 

Pepper smiles sweetly at Tony – and how that woman puts up with him, Clint will never know – Natasha examines her nails, Steve’s eyebrows are furrowed in confusion and Vision is reading. Wanda and Pietro are examining one of Stark’s newest phones.

 

“Let’s order Thai,” says Natasha.

 

“Or,” interjects Sam, “We could get pizza because we’ve had Thai _every night_ since last Thursday.”

 

“Or we could all go out,” pipes in Tony. “We can get reservations and have a whole restaurant to ourselves.”

 

Pepper smiles fondly and Clint announces to the room at large, “I’m going to make mashed potatoes,” just as Thor bellows something about Poptarts in response. He escapes into the kitchen before there’s any bloodshed.

 

As Clint peels the potatoes, he thinks of his sister at home with the kids, meticulously peeling potatoes from the yard and washing carrots.

 

“Need help with that?”

 

Clint glances up. Pietro stands in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe, every line in his body a provocation and Clint forces himself to look back down at the potatoes.

 

For a split second, Clint feels a rush of heat pressed into his backside, the kid’s body flooding his skin with warmth and then it’s gone, and Pietro’s standing innocently on the other side of Clint, eyes wide and earnest. Clint can’t help but flit his gaze over Pietro’s mouth.

 

“If I needed help, you’d be the first to know,” he replies but his voice comes out rougher than intended and Pietro opens his pretty mouth to say something when Cap calls him from the dining room.

 

They all congregate in the living room after dinner – which is an interesting combination of mashed potatoes and Thai-inspired pizza – to watch the 2009 Star Trek reboot. Clint’s sitting on the couch, watching absentmindedly as young Jim Kirk drives a car over a cliff when Pietro plops down to sit next to him and Clint tenses his muscles, a flimsy excuse to leave the room at the tip of his tongue. But Pietro ignores him and Clint settles in comfortably.

 

“Anyone want popcorn?” Steve asks, as he gets up to get some from the kitchen.

 

“Stop blocking the movie,” calls out Sam and Steve huffs at this.

 

Kirk is eating an apple and generally looking like an asshole during the Kobayashi Maru when Steve comes back, holding a giant bowl of cheddar popcorn and looking triumphant.

 

Tony says, “Nice one, Cap, you didn’t burn down the building.”

 

“I’m trying to enjoy this film,” Natasha says warningly, from where she’s perched on an armchair, and Tony shuts the fuck up.

 

Clint’s watching Sulu and Kirk jump onto the drilling platform when out of the corner of his eye, he sees Pietro sneak a hand across Clint, to the bowl of popcorn in Steve’s lap. With some satisfaction, he watches Steve swat Pietro’s hand away, says, “I asked if anyone wanted any.”

 

And Clint can’t help but let out an amused scoff at that. Pietro ignores him, instead drags his hand away from the popcorn bowl, over Clint’s lap. Pietro’s nails drag over Clint’s thighs and Clint bites down on his tongue, tries not to shiver, tries to ignore the knowing smirk that blooms across Pietro’s face. The bastard doesn’t even like popcorn.

 

-

 

There is an enormous gym in Tony’s tower.

 

Steve still insists that the entire team take turns using the gym, to maintain a sense of propriety. And, simultaneously, while Clint tries to avoid Pietro, it seems as though the latter starts actively seeking Clint out.

 

He asks for one-on-one training and Clint can’t say no, because Pietro – the bastard – had asked while Cap was right there. Steve had been all for it. At Clint’s hesitation, Pietro comes up behind him – and fuck, Clint can _feel_ his presence now, the abrupt heat a harbinger for Pietro’s presence – and asks innocently, “What’s the harm in a little training?”

 

And it’s at times like this – as Clint watches Pietro take it out on a punching bag, no clever line tucked into his smile, eyes narrowed in concentration – when Clint wants. Pietro’s focused with laser-beam concentration, every muscle in his body tense as he hits the bag over and over again; every line of his limbs is thrumming with energy and sweat gleams tantalizingly on his skin.

 

“Pietro,” Clint says, mouth suspiciously dry, “Pietro that’s enough.”

 

The speedster turns around in surprise. He cocks an eyebrow. “You got somewhere to be?” and fuck, his accent is thicker as well, which makes Clint’s belly clench in response.

 

“No. I don’t want you to push yourself too hard,” replies Clint, silently grateful that his voice is unwavering.

 

Pietro stands still for a moment more, chest heaving, mouth slightly open and Clint knows that he’s fucked.

 

“You’ve been in here every morning with Steve and in the afternoons with me. You’re gonna burn yourself out, kid.”

 

Pietro looks like he’s about to argue, then he shrugs, his muscles unclenching, loosening into something much more dangerous. He strides past the row of punching bags, limbs loose and pliant, every step cocky and self-righteous. He walks right up to Clint and he seems like clean sweat and vanilla soap, his smooth skin coated in a sheen of sweat.

 

“Just to let you know,” he pants, and his mouth is ridiculously red, “I know you’re in here twice as much as I am.”

 

And Clint’s mouth is half-open, he’s about to blurt out some bullshit excuse about being a SHIELD agent longer but Quicksilver’s already halfway out the gym.

 

-

 

Tony takes it upon himself to start taking attendance at all of their team movie nights.

 

Clint only learns this after spending two weeks undercover in Cambodia.

 

“Barton!” Tony calls out as Clint walks into the living room. “Finally, he’s here. For a while there we thought you’d stopped coming,” Tony pouts mockingly.

 

“Yeah,” Pietro interjects from where he’s sprawled across a couch lazily. “When Clint’s not here, I don’t get to come that much either,” and Steve chokes on his water.

 

“Don’t listen to him,” Clint says easily, his expression betraying nothing of the conflagration in his belly, “When I’m not here, he doesn’t get to come at all.”

 

Wanda barks out a laugh and Vision thumps Steve firmly on the back. Natasha doesn’t even twitch, curling into herself as they all settle down to watch Star Trek: Into Darkness.

 

-

 

For all of their flirting, Clint and Pietro don’t touch, save for when it’s required on their missions, when they train, and those brief, white-hot flashes of warmth pressed against Clint’s back for less than a second when they are alone.

 

That changes one morning, when Cap is supposed to have training with Sam, Vision, and Pietro but the latter is nowhere to be found.

 

“I’ll get him,” Clint offers, his mouth moving before he can stop himself and Steve nods in gratitude.

 

As Clint makes his way to Pietro’s room, he realizes that he’s never been there before. Or, inside, rather.

 

He knocks once.

 

“Pietro?” Clint says, and he is answered with silence. “Pietro?”

 

Clint deliberates outside the door for a moment, weight already distributed to the balls of his feet to leave. He refrains from glancing behind him, then, against his better judgement, cracks open the door.

 

At first glance, the room is empty. The bed is rumpled, sheets thrown back carelessly, but when Clint glances to the corner, he sees Pietro huddled into himself, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around his calves. His forehead rests on his knees and Pietro murmurs, under his breath – if Clint weren’t a super assassin he wouldn’t be able to distinguish the words – “please, no, I’ll – I’ll be good, I – ”

 

And Clint knows. He’s read the file – Wanda meant everything to Pietro, and Pietro was breakable; she was leverage. Clint knows that. But nothing pinches Clint’s gut – tightens his entrails into something raw and feral, something primitive and _dangerous –_ nothing hurts him more than seeing Pietro like this.

 

And Clint knows. He lives with a group of some of the most dangerous, deadly people in this world – possibly the universe – so he knows that they all carry their burdens. So Clint walks over without hesitation, slides down a reasonable distance away from Pietro, murmurs, “I’m here, Pietro, I’m here for you.”

 

And he leans his head back, against the wall. He repeats to himself, “We’ll be okay,” over and over, like a mantra. His eyes slide shut and he’s speaking to himself more than anyone now so his eyes open once more when he feels Pietro’s hands, large and warm and tentative at his elbow.

 

Pietro says, “Don’t go.”

 

Clint’s resolve crumbles into nothingness. He scoots closer to Pietro, so that their flanks press against each other with every breath. After a minute, Clint throws his arm around the other man, squeezes his shoulder and Clint instinctively presses his mouth against Pietro’s warm temple. Pietro’s hand crawls across Clint’s waist and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to have Pietro there, have his hand squeezing Clint’s hipbone so tight Clint’s almost positive it will leave bruises tomorrow.

 

They stay there for a while. Clint stays there, tastes the sweat on his lips and pretends not to hear Pietro cry.

 

-

 

“Hold still, it isn’t that easy,” Tony says. He’s as concentrated as Clint’s ever seen him, juggling two tablets and a soldering iron. Apparently, when they aren’t saving the world, Tony Stark gets bored very easily. Today, he’s trying to make some sort of assassin-proof vest. Or so he says.

 

“I’d ask Natasha to do it, because I want to make sure the design can withstand all of the front-flips she does, but she isn’t here. So you’re next, Hawkguy.”

 

Clint rolls his eyes.

 

 “I’m not doing front-flips for you, Stark.”

 

“No need,” Tony says cheerfully. He begins typing frantically on one of his tablets. “I’d try it on myself but I can’t move like you do,” he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. The material has the color of metal but resembles a t-shirt more than anything, which Clint wisely does not voice aloud.

 

“What is it for?” calls out a third voice, and Clint glances up to see Pietro maneuvering around a precarious tower of what looks like robot arms. Pietro looks the same as he always does, save for the contusions under his eyes.

 

“Lots of things,” Tony says mysteriously, never once looking up from the screen.

 

“What do you think?” Clint asks Pietro, who stalks closer.

 

“Looks nice on you,” he looks up, his smile wolfish and it makes Clint regret saying anything. His accent is heavy and lilting today. “Probably would look nicer on my bedroom floor, yeah?” Clint refrains the urge to roll his eyes.

 

“Okay, oh my god,” Tony interjects and Pietro casually strolls out of the room. Tony looks up and turns to watch Pietro go. Then he turns back and looks at Clint. “Is that? Are you – ”

 

“It’s not like that,” says Clint, calm.

 

“Uh-huh,” Tony says and Clint resolutely does not put his head in his hands.

 

-

 

Pietro doesn’t come to training again. This time, Cap just tilts his head imploringly at Clint before Clint makes his way out of the gym, sighing all the way.

 

“Pietro?” Clint calls out, as the elevator pings and he steps off on Pietro’s floor. The door to Pietro’s room is open and Pietro calls out, “Yeah?”

 

“Why isn’t your ass in training,” Clint does not growl as he walks into the room. Pietro’s sitting on his bed, frowning at his phone.

 

“Training?” Pietro cocks his head innocently and the corner of his mouth lifts in humor.

 

Clint puts his hands in his pockets and wields his self-restraint like a shield. He stands a yard from Pietro’s bed.

 

“Clint,” Pietro laughs suddenly, his face lighting up with amusement. He tosses his phone to the side, then beckons to Clint with a finger in a come-hither motion. Something in Clint’s stomach clenches with anticipation and he pushes his doubts to the back of his mind, walks forward and leans his head to the side as he contemplates this person – this man in front of him.

 

“Hello,” Clint says, as he stands in front of Pietro.

 

“I made you come with just one finger,” Pietro says, eyes glinting, “Imagine what I can do with one hand.”

 

All of their flirting, their friendly banter, their teasing – it’s all led up to this moment, and Clint can do nothing as his willpower crumbles.  

 

He surges forward and their teeth clack together with the force. Pietro’s lips are hot and soft and his tongue is slick in Clint’s mouth; Pietro’s skin is burning, it is fire, thrumming with vigor and vitality.

 

Pietro’s hands are everywhere, flitting over Clint’s shoulders, his chest, before finally resting on Clint’s hips and their bodies mold together, fitting together seamlessly.

 

There’s a low moan, rumbling in Clint’s chest as Pietro rolls his hips easily. Clint feels the line of Pietro’s cock against his skin and his own twitches in response. Desire roils in Clint’s blood, roars in his ears until all he can hear is his own heart beating in his chest.

 

“Fuck me,” Pietro gasps, as Clint breaks their kiss to bruise a pale bit of Pietro’s neck with his mouth. “Please, Clint, I – ”

 

Clint buries his nose in the crook of Pietro’s neck, pushes both of them backwards until the backs of Pietro’s knees hit the bed, until they fall onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs.

 

Pietro’s hands are tugging at Clint’s shirt, his belt, his pants, and Clint can only oblige. He wants, can feel his dick hard and heavy between his legs, watches with greedy eyes as Pietro tears off his own shirt.

 

His skin glistens with sweat and Clint’s mouth waters. His fingers brush over Pietro’s lips, the pale column of his throat and down his chest, barely brushing a pert nipple before dragging a nail through the thin trail of hair that leads down, under Pietro’s track pants.

 

Pietro whines and he bucks his hips, his obvious erection creating a tent in his pants.

 

“Easy tiger,” Clint murmurs, tongue flickering out to moisten his lips. Clint tugs at Pietro’s pants and Pietro’s cock springs out, curving over his chest.

 

Clint leans in once more and captures Pietro’s mouth in a wet, slippery kiss. Clint’s knees and elbows dig into the mattress, his body molding into Pietro’s underneath him. Pietro’s hands clutch at Clint’s neck, thumbs brushing over the cartilage of Clint’s ears before burying themselves in Clint’s hair.

 

Their cocks brush as Pietro shifts slightly and Pietro fucking _whimpers_ , a delicious noise that causes Clint’s toes to curl into the sheets.

 

“Please,” implores Pietro and his eyes are blown, chest heaving, hands clutching onto the sheets. Every breath he takes brushes their dicks together and Clint rolls his hips instinctively, his body screaming for more friction. “In the second drawer,” Pietro says, head jerking toward the nightstand. In response, Clint presses his mouth onto Pietro’s temple, tamps down his lust long enough to shuffle through the nightstand, retrieving lube and a condom.

 

“How long has that been there, huh?” Clint growls, into Pietro’s ear and the latter shivers. “It’s been there since I got here.”

 

“Tony Stark,” Clint chuckles, pouring the lube onto his fingers.

 

“Let’s not talk about him while you’re about to pound my ass,” Pietro replies and his accent is heavy.

 

Clint warms the cold liquid in his palms before smoothing his hands up Pietro’s thighs, up to the tight ring of muscle surrounding his orifice.

 

“Is this okay?” Clint asks.

 

“It’s been okay ever since I came to America,” retorts Pietro and Clint complies, working a finger inside of Pietro.

 

With the first intrusion, Pietro’s eyes roll back into his skull, back arching off the mattress in a beautiful curve.

 

Clint breathes, “You okay?” and Pietro nods feverishly, hips canting so that the rest of Clint’s finger slips in.

 

“Oh my god,” Pietro groans and Clint sighs in agreement. Pietro’s body is warm and pliant around Clint’s finger, and it feels like Clint is taking Pietro apart, bit by bit, finger by finger until Clint’s got three fingers crooked up Pietro’s ass and Pietro’s heels are digging into the mattress, mouth open in an o shape, his body clenching around Clint’s fingers.

 

“Please,” Pietro pants, his voice hoarse, “Please, oh _god,_ Clint – ” he breaks off and babbles something indiscernible in Sokovian.

 

“Sorry,” Clint murmurs, “I don’t speak Sokovian. Care to translate?”

 

And Pietro answers in a throaty moan as Clint’s fingers push up against his prostate, barely brushing against the gland but Pietro reacts wonderfully, his throat bared and his hips thrusting up to take in more of Clint’s fingers.

 

“Fuck me,” Pietro manages to pant, his dick still jutting over his stomach, untouched. “Please, Clint, please.”

 

“You can touch yourself,” Clint murmurs, into Pietro’s ear and the younger man blinks rapidly, as if just realizing he could and oh God, that makes something curl, hot and angry, in Clint’s gut.

 

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” Clint promises, as Pietro’s hand wraps around his cock, “I’m going to make you forget everything except for my name,” Clint’s voice is rough but his fingers work gently, even gracefully, as he stretches the ring of Pietro’s muscle.

 

“If you don’t,” Pietro rasps, and Clint finds comfort in the hint of humor in Pietro’s tone, “Then I demand a refund.”

 

“Noted,” Clint remarks, and he removes his slick fingers from between Pietro’s thighs, rips the condom package open before slipping the contraceptive on.

 

“Come on,” Pietro pants, then says something in Sokovian before switching back to English, “Give it to me.”

 

Clint leans down to catch Pietro’s lower lip between his teeth, slips his tongue into Pietro’s mouth while guiding his cock in between Pietro’s legs, nudging the head of his dick against Pietro’s entrance.

 

“Okay?” breathes Clint and he feels it when Pietro nods emphatically, drags his nails down Clint’s back. He can only imagine the red marks that will be left behind.

 

Pietro’s breath hitches when Clint slides the head of his cock in, and Clint pauses for a moment. But then Pietro wraps his legs around Clint’s waist, his heels pushing into the small of Clint’s back so that he slides forward, dick pushing into Pietro in one smooth movement.

 

“Pietro,” Clint hisses and his muscles are on fire, burning with desire –

 

“Hard,” Pietro gasps, “Fuck me hard, Clint, I know you can.”

 

He swivels his hips, pulling himself out before canting his hips back in and his hands clutch the sheets on either side of Pietro, sweat pooling in the dip of his neck, the back of his collar. He thrusts shallowly and Pietro whimpers, “Clint.”

 

Clint lowers his head, pressing his lips against Pietro’s neck and feels the blood pulsing under his lips as he rocks Pietro into the mattress.

 

Pietro’s hands are buried in Clint’s hair and he’s whispering in a mixture of Sokovian and English, his Sokovian sentences interspersed with the occasional, “ _yes,” “please,”_ and “ _Clint.”_

The muscles in Clint’s lower belly tighten and everything is deliciously hot – Pietro’s breath on Clint’s collarbone, his skin, his body. Blood crashes in his ear and Clint trails a hand over Pietro’s chest, brushing over a nipple. Pietro tilts his head backwards in response, hair falling onto his pillow, revealing the pale skin of his neck.

 

“Harder,” manages Pietro. “Fuck me harder, like you mean it,” he hisses and Clint positively _growls_ , his hips snapping, plunging into Pietro with every thrust and he wants to fuck any evidence of Strucker from Pietro, wants to make him forget every single thing he encountered in that HYDRA base.

 

“Yes, Clint, _god_ ,” Pietro whines and his hand is stroking impossibly fast around his cock; Clint thinks that it begins to blur.

 

And Clint continues slamming into Pietro, his hips thrusting mercilessly. Pietro comes with a shout, his spine curving off of the mattress and Clint captures his mouth in a kiss. Clint’s orgasm comes a few thrusts later, catches him by surprise, hits him in the chest and he comes without a sound.

 

Clint thrusts lazily, shallowly, two more times before his flaccid cock slips from Pietro’s body.

 

“That was successful,” drawls Pietro and Clint snorts, pulls the used condom off and throws it onto the floor. “And that was disgusting.”

 

“I’ll pick it up later,” Clint says, brushes his lips across Pietro’s temple, his cheek, his lips, before acquiescing to the tantalizing allure of the mattress. He collapses next to Pietro on the bed.

 

His mind is blissfully still for a minute. Then the thoughts come creeping in and Pietro groans.

 

“I can hear you thinking,” the young man grumbles and Clint turns on his side to face him. Pietro’s eyes are already sliding shut. “Just take a nap and you can freak out about it later,” he mumbles.

 

Clint opens his mouth to say that he isn’t freaking out, when a) he realizes that isn’t true, and b) Pietro’s curls into his side and c) Clint decides he can’t muster up the strength to discuss this right now.

 

He sleeps.

 

-

 

Clint wakes up with a looseness in his limbs, a feeling of complacency in his belly.

 

Pietro sits to his right, perched on the edge of the bed.

 

“Pietro?” Clint says, and his voice is rough around the edges.

 

Pietro turns and smiles. Clint can’t help but smile back.

 

“Hello,” Pietro answers and sunlight spills onto his face through a glass window. He’s pulled on sweatpants and his eyes are dark. “You were asleep for two hours.”

 

Clint blinks back the last dregs of sleep. “We missed training.”

 

Pietro laughs. The sound is tinkling and Clint reaches over without thinking, entwines his fingers in Pietro’s. “Oh, I think I still got a work-out,” Pietro winks and Clint shakes his head, says, “You don’t know when to stop, do you?”

 

Pietro moves slowly, as if he wants Clint to anticipate every moment. Pietro turns and he’s close to Clint, close enough so that Clint can see the light reflecting off of Pietro’s eyelashes.

 

“Why would I when you haven’t done anything to stop me?” Pietro breathes and he leans in.

 

Clint feels like he’s balancing on a tightrope; he dangles precariously on one side before tipping over to the other. One side tells him to press his fingers into Pietro’s chest, mold his palms into Pietro’s chest and feel every inch, learn every iota, breath Pietro in and let him _stay_ – and the other side hisses at him, reminds him; he is _dangerous_ , he is a liability, he doesn’t _deserve_ –

 

“You shouldn’t want me,” Clint rasps, and his heart thumps slow and steady in his chest, pumps blood through his body, keeps him alive.

 

“But I do,” Pietro insists, and his eyes are so so bright, his eyelashes dark smudges against his pale cheeks. “And there’s nothing you could ever say to stop me.” Pietro leans in and Clint smells him – the clean sweat, the heat, that damned shampoo.

 

Clint sits up abruptly, sheets pooling around his hips. Pietro scoots back slightly to take a seat adjacent to him, crosses his legs so that their knees bump.

 

“Tell me,” Pietro says, skin flushed with a lovely sheen of sweat and his pupils are blown, his body practically thrumming with energy, “Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll stop.”

 

Clint prides himself on a willpower of steel – enabling him to hunch in extreme weathers waiting for a lapse in the howling wind, or allowing him to withstand interrogations – but now, _now_ , Clint wants so badly his hands tremble at his sides. Clint growls, “Pietro – you know I want you, but, we need to talk about this.”

 

“Yeah?” asks Pietro. His pretty mouth is red and round and Clint can’t stop looking at his lips. “Tell me then, Clint, what’s so complicated; you want me, I want you. Why shouldn’t it happen?”

 

“Because,” Clint starts half-heartedly, but Natasha’s words ring in his ears – _you’ve punished yourself enough_ –

 

“I don’t feel bad about this,” Pietro all but growls, “I am not ashamed of what I want.”

 

“I’m not ashamed of you,” Clint says firmly.

 

“I’ve accepted what Strucker has done to me,” Pietro continues, as if Clint hadn’t said a thing, “They did things to me I didn’t want but it wasn’t my fault,” Pietro leans impossibly closer and Clint has to reach out to plant his hands on Pietro’s waist. “And now, I do things that _I_ want. And I want you.”

 

There’s a moment, a thick silence that perches in the room as Clint looks at Pietro, really looks into him and it feels inevitable as Clint leans in, presses his lips against Pietro’s.

 

“We’ll be okay,” Pietro murmurs, and for the first time since Clint’s heard that – all those months ago in that sterile room with Pietro’s heart hooked up to a monitor – he believes it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The scene from at the gala was inspired by this lovely work [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3472679).


End file.
